


Open Passageways

by ellarunciter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Slow Burn, Smut, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellarunciter/pseuds/ellarunciter
Summary: "Help me out of it, Francis." But then, things are a bit different.Short-ish glimpses of the long way home for our favourite frozen sailors.Title from the song by All Them Witches
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. King William Island

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fic ever and I honestly have no idea what I'm doing!  
> Also English is not my first language so I'll be extra grateful for feedback, especially regarding grammar/punctuation. Pretty please?

"It was an honor serving with you, sir. You’re a good man. There will be poems."

Bridgens left the tent after that, and Francis looked back at James, cradling the green bottle in his left hand, holding both of James's hands with his right. Time stood still for a moment, but there was an urgency, a plea in his Second's eyes, for him to do what was needed. The Captain's tent was cold but not freezing, the only light coming from a single lamp, yellow and soft, drawing shadows on the dying man's face. When setting camp, Francis had ordered the men to put Fitzjames's cot in his own tent, instead of the bigger one with the rest of their sick. He had a feeling that the man would possibly not make it through the night, and wanted to care for him personally. 

But doing this felt like giving up on all hope. 

Back in Rescue Camp, when Morfin had grabbed a gun in the middle of the night, the Captain had seen straight away what the sick man was looking for. A mercy, to be helped out of it, a plea to end his own pain, no remnant of hope. And yet the Captain had stood there and tried to convince his men not to shoot, tried to convince Morfin to lower his weapon, to give medicine yet another try. It was a matter of morale, more than one of morals, he'd told himself later that night. Deep inside, the Captain believed a man should at least be free to choose the manner of his own death, here where not many choices remained. Not like that, not in front of the whole crew, exhausted and sick as they were; certainly not by threatening to shoot them. But in the end he'd only had compassion for Morfin, even after he had shot at the Commander, and immediately gotten half his brains splattered on the gravel by Tozer's shot. "You're clear, Sergeant", he'd told the Marine, blood frozen until he saw Fitzjames standing, unharmed. 

He'd barked orders that night, and everyone went back to their tents afterwards. Another horrible event had come to pass, yes, but there was still hope, a purpose remained for the men, for Crozier, a will to keep walking South.

This felt completely different. 

And yet, he would do it. Because James asked. Hell, he realised that was it not for Bridgens's suggestion, the bottle he was still holding ( _Would it be painless? Quick?_ ) he would have done it with his own bare hands. Because James asked. He was grateful to the steward, for making this impossible choice a bit easier, but nevertheless he felt tears rolling warm down his own cheeks, welling up in his throat. He couldn't possibly bring himself to do this. But he would. And he would not look away from James's eyes, dark and tired and full of pain, the left eye red with blood ( _Can he still see? Will he see my tears, in this dim light?_ ), full of pain, yes, but not impatient. No trace of fear in them, either. Francis could almost cherish this moment, their eyes locked in silence.

A commotion outside. 

He could hear the men running and shouting. "Not now", he thought. "I'll deal with whatever it is, in a few minutes, not now, I have to do this". But next came a gunshot, and James seemed to have heard, too, because his eyes shifted slightly, frowning with something other than pain, something different, and he mustered the strength to utter one more word:

"Go."

Crozier stood up, but remained paralized by the cot for a second. Fitzjames held his gaze, and produced a tiny, pained smirk, as if to reassure him: _Go on now, I'll wait for you right here_. The men were quiet, now, as if waiting for an imminent attack. Crozier stepped outside on unsteady feet, half expecting to see Hickey's men advancing between the tents. 

What he saw, instead, was Mister Blanky running, as fast as he could on his wooden leg, out of the camp, past the circle of light cast by their lamps and torches.   
"That's a DOG, you idiots! Don't you dare shoot again, or I'll have yer fecking HIDES!", he yelled towards the men; and then, on an equally loud, but much friendlier tone, towards the darkness and the shale: "C'mere, boy! C'MERE!".   
Crozier was about to call for his friend ( _What the hell are you doing, Thomas?_ ), when a shadow, only slightly darker than the other million shadows outside, and definitely too small to be the creature they had nicknamed Mr Teeth-And-Claws, darted towards the Ice-master, jumped on him and knocked him to the ground.

"DON'T SHOOT!" The Captain put his whole authority, and his whole lungs, into the order, and ran to Blanky.

The shadow was, indeed, a dog. A dark wolfish-looking creature, the kind the natives of some regions in the Arctic used as sled dogs, the kind the Admiralty refused, time after time, to use for their own expeditions.   
"I knew it was a dog, Francis". Thomas Blanky beamed, still on the ground, now holding the dog and trying to sit up while it licked his face. "It's got a leather collar, this one. With a brass buckle". 

"Not Native, then? Navy, you'd think?" Crozier felt hope well up in his throat, where tears had been a minute ago.   
Blanky cackled. "Well you'd think they've given up on the bloody reindeer by now!"

The Captain looked back, the silhouettes of his crew standing at the edge of their camp, as if awaiting an omen. The dog had stopped licking the Ice-Master's face, and was gleefully observing both men, expectant. Crozier let it smell his hand ( _so strange, to feel the warm breath of a living thing on his fingertips, so close_ ) and the dog, as if it had been waiting for a wardroom officer's permission to speak, raised its head to the dark cloudless sky, and howled.

And then, in the East, faint but unmistakeably clear, a chorus of howls raised in answer.

"Rescue! RESCUE, MEN!", cried Crozier, his voice almost breaking, just like it had during Sir John's eulogy, so long ago.

  
And Blanky, Blanky threw his head back and howled too, back into the night.

In an instant the camp, still and silent just moments before, erupted in howls too, and cheers, and chants of Rescue, loud and vibrant, Creature and mutineers be damned. The Captain knew he had a job to do, orders to give: the fastest Lieutenant and most reliable Marine to leash the dog (that seemed to be attempting to drag Blanky all the way to his owners, yapping and wagging its tail), and follow it to greet their rescuers, whoever they might be, to communicate the urgency of their situation, the supplies they most needed, to bring them back to camp, maybe a doctor, he hoped they brought a doctor, and guns, and fresh food, maybe even lime juice? Or lemons? And what would they do about Mr Hickey's group? The answer to that question would probably depend on the identity and number of their rescuers; the Captain would have to confer with them, and with his own officers, and plan so much, and give so many orders, before they were all really saved. 

But Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, heart shattered by the realization of what he'd been about to do, what he might have just done if that damned dog had shown up just a moment later, left his best friend laying on the shale, still howling like a madman, turned around and ran past through his men, back into his own tent instead.


	2. Chapter 2: King William Island

Everything was beautiful, and everything hurt.

  
His days were a haze of light and noise, the light hurting his eyes whenever he awoke (Was it May, still? Were the days getting longer?) and noise all around, voices of men, most of them familiar, but some strange new ones too. He'd come to recognise the one belonging to the doctor, who watched over him and gave Bridgens instructions to feed him broth and force him to chug incredible amounts of sweetened lime juice. The sugar did nothing for him, and he found the stuff nauseating, but he drank it nevertheless, under the concerned looks of his caretaker.

Mr Bridgens was back into his role as James's steward now that Ross's men had joined the group, bringing both a doctor and a ship's surgeon who took charge of the sick and injured, praising the way John had kept their wounds dressed and clean, and tended to them with the scarcest of supplies and only the most basic knowledge of the human body and its ailments. The old steward fed and cleaned his Captain, administered the potions the doctors prescribed when he suffered with fever or pain, and never once mentioned the night of their rescue, when he had bid James farewell with tearful eyes, there in the Captain's tent. He was grateful for that, for not having to talk much at all, drifting in and out of consciousness and dozing away into strange dreams, where time and reality were nebulous things. _It's the scurvy_ , he told himself. _And the_ _medicine, too._

But the night of their rescue had not been a dream. Or had it? He had _wanted_ to live, so much, but then again, he had wanted to die already, be done with it.   
His mind produced glimpses of memories from that night, every now and then, inbetween dreams. Or was it all dreams?  
 _"James. Are you certain?"_  
Francis crying. Soft light sculpting every crease and wrinkle and pockmark on his tired, sweet face. The glimmer of tears streaming down his cheeks. It wasn't scary to die, looking at a face like that. Sad, yes, but not scary.  
 _"There will be poems"_ , Bridgens had said.  
And then silence and then noise (A gunshot?) and Francis leaving the tent.  
After that, James remembered hearing the strangest cacophony of howls and screams, and thinking that wolves were attacking the camp, so strange to see wolves that far North, maybe another trick of that place that wanted them dead. He had wished to be able to get up and fight, help scare the beasts off, maybe kill one or two, so the men could be fed.  
 _"I'm not Christ"_. Had he really said that? Or merely thought it laying there, in the tent, on his own?

And then Francis running back into the tent, face still covered in tears, dropping on his knees by James' cot, grabbing his hands, frenzied but delicate.  
 _"Rescue, James. You're saved. We're saved"_  
Francis reaching above him, and kissing him.

That part must have been a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe he had hallucinated it that night, and that's what his scurvy-ridden brain remembered now. Or maybe he had dreamt it, through the fever and the laudanum, some time between that night and now. His dreams were confusing like that, these days. He dreamt constantly, of his brother, the garden at Rose Hill, the halls of the Admiralty, Sir John in Erebus' Great Cabin, a table full of food.

But this particular dream made no sense, then. In every other dream, James was hale and healthy; he couldn't see himself but felt the weight of his own body, the strength of his muscles, the smell of clean clothes on himself. James Fitzjames wouldn't dream himself bed-ridden, all loose teeth and blurry vision, reeking of death and without the strenght to lift a hand or barely even talk.

And yet it must have been a dream, because Francis wouldn't kiss him like that, would he? He would have maybe kissed his forehead, or his temple, in the pure joy of knowing they were saved, maybe, had not James's hairline been seeping blood, his skin covered in a cold, viscous sweat. He would have never held his hands and full-on kissed his cracked and bloody lips, and then stayed there, breathing in James' rancid breath, the breath of a dying man, their faces so close their noses touched, cradling his face with a trembling hand, while his men ran and cheered all around, and anyone could enter the tent at any time.

 _"Captains?"_ , Bridgens had said.   
Of course it would be him, who ran into the tent after Crozier in the first place. Bridgens had said nothing else that night (in that dream?), nor at any other time after that, about finding his Captains in such position. So it must have been a dream after all. Although, James pondered, had it all been real then Bridgens had his own reasons for not saying anything at all. He had kinda known for some time, and he was sure now, because of the way the old man's face lightened up every time Crozier came by the tent. Which meant he could leave James's side.

 _"Stay, Mr Bridgens"_ , Francis had said that night, and then, to James: _"You'll have to hold on a bit longer, my friend"._  
And Bridgens had stayed by his side since then, keeping an eye on him, waiting for the Captain's frequent visits as a chance to run to his own man, Harry Peglar, who lay in the main sick tent, in a condition as poor as Fitzjames. 

"How is he?", James had asked one night, when Bridgens came into his tent carrying lime juice in his hands and a hermetic look on his face. The steward had not even tried to pretend he didn't know who James was inquiring about. _He knew that I knew_ , James mused now. He knew half the camp knew, probably, and no one seemed to care. Bridgens and Peglar stood out in their friendship, as the rest of Terrors and Erebites, even after being cramped together on Erebus for months, had seemed to rearrange themselves back into their original ship's cliques as soon as they started walking on the ice. Hauling teams and tent arrangements, after all, had been planned with little overlap between the two crews. But any time the two men could spend together, when they were not hauling or sleeping, they did. Henry Collins had caught James looking at them one morning,   
sitting together with their meager rations, and had spoken only four words, _"They go way back"_ , before going back to the matter of their supplies. Four words spoken in a manner that was not exactly disrespectful, but matter-of-factly in a way that had left James thinking. Both Peglar and Bridgens were well-liked in their respective ships, and the love between them seemed to him a tugline between the two vessels. Whatever shape this love bore was irrelevant. No man would care to judge what kept another man going. To keep going was everything they could afford to care about, out there on the ice. And out on the ice, Bridgens and Peglar seemed at times invincible. If Collins was right, and the two had known (and loved?) each other before the Franklin expedition, then it was hard for James to imagine how they'd felt, trapped on two different ships, within sight of one another but mostly out of reach, for almost two years. _At least Francis and I would meet often enough for command meetings_ , he thought. 

"He is doing well, Sir. We went for a walk today." Bridgens answered, not seeming to notice that James was lost in thought. "The doctors do not fear for his life anymore, even though he will need months to regain his strength, they say." 

"That's good to hear, Mr Bridgens", James had answered back. And that had been it.

Now James found himself observing the steward in the pale mid-day light, while he busied himself in the Captains' tent, tidying up Crozier's blankets and fluffing up the dirty, battered pillow. James was about to ask him about lunch (and he felt such excitement at realising that he felt actually hungry, for the first time in weeks), when Francis came in.

"Ah, John! Would you please fetch some food for us? I believe there's some seal meat roasting somewhere. And then get lunch yourself, too. I need a word with Captain Fitzjames." James could not help feeling startled. There was something off about Francis' tone. Too cheerful. A tension underneath. Not unlike the way he used to address the men back when he was deep in the drink. James bit the inside of his cheek, without thinking until the pain hit him, and sat up on his cot.

Bridgens nodded and left the tent. Only then did Francis look at James, set a box on the ground next to him, sat down and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"What's going on?", James asked in return.

Francis sighed. "Will you at least wait until the food's here? I miss the times when command meetings were held during a meal."

James said nothing. A _command meeting_? He was clearly in no position to command. So whatever news Francis carried, he feared, were about decisions already made, between him and Ross and their healthier officers. He found it equal parts amusing and frustrating to think that Little or Dundy were privy to each of the Captain's decisions now, moreso than himself.

Francis shifted on his seat, sighing again. "I guess it's no use to try and make small talk, then. We're moving on Mr Hickey's camp, tomorrow. At least ten of us, all armed. Still deciding on the names."

"Ten of _us_? Francis, you... you can't possibly think of going yourself. That... devil, he loathes you. He'll shoot you on sight. Let Ross's men deal with this. He might be more inclined to peace if he thinks he's dealing with men who don't know him."

"That's what Ross proposed too, James. But precisely because I know him, I will not risk it. Who knows what we'll find in their camp. What... depravity might have transpired. Our rescuers are in better shape thanmost of us, yes, but I fear they're not prepared to _deal_ with our former crew."

"Then leave them." James felt his own voice lower and crack. A different kind of knot added to the pit of his empty stomach. A sudden fiery anger at this Captain, this bloody idiot who loved his men more than God did, and could very well still die in the Arctic, at the hands of one of them. "Leave them to rot in this place. They made a choice back then, and they chose mutiny."

Bridgens stepped in the tent then, carrying two plates of smoking meat and a small bottle of lime juice. He seemed to hesitate for a second, before setting them on Crozier's table. "I can bring some water, too, or would you prefer-", he started, only to be cut short by Francis's "That'll be all, Mr Bridgens". Without as much as a glance at his captains, eyes fixed on the ground, the steward nodded, and left again.

"James. There's good men there. Who found themselves following Mr Hickey by pure chance. I'm fairly sure Mr Diggle was not conspiring with them to leave us. And Lieutenant Hodgson, if he survived the attack on Terror Camp, might be with them too!"

"Bugger Hodgson, and bugger Mr Diggle. You cannot go-" James pleaded.

"They got the Doctor, too."

 _We have doctors here now_ , James thought, but didn't say it. He felt horrified at the mere thought, that for a second he had considered Goodsir as a resource they could give up on when no longer needed, and not as the kind, brave man he'd come to appreciate so much. A man he'd gladly call a friend for the rest of his days, if they ever made it back to England. He averted his gaze, suddenly unable to look Francis in the face.

Francis seemed to take his silence as a sign of agreement, got up and handed James a plate. He was well enough now to eat by himself, as long as the food was safely balanced on his lap and he didn't need to use his still weak left arm to hold it. 

"Eat, James. We'll go tomorrow" Francis continued, grabbing his own plate. "Ten of us, well armed. We'll see how many of those men we can safely bring back. I'm hoping for as little violence as possible, but I have not forgotten that both Hickey and Tozer were headed for the gallows before they ran off. And neither have the rest of our men."

James didn't touch his food. All of a sudden, the smell of grilled meat had brought him back to Carnivale. He glared at Francis, whose expression had gone stern, his thin lips in a tight line.

"I know I can't stop you from doing this", James conceded, "but none of it will be worth it if you get yourself killed".

"I won't. I promise." Francis gave him a weak smile. "I'll come back to this camp and I'll help you get back home to England. All of you. I know that's why... why God wants me to live", he concluded, eyes roaming around the tent.

"Francis. Look at me." He looked exhausted, James thought. Determined, and strong, but so very tired. His blue eyes lingered on James's hands for a fraction of a second, before setting of his face.

" _I_ want you to live." 

James heard Francis inhale sharply, and saw his face shift, like the sun peeking over the horizon on the first sunrise after an Arctic winter. And, just like an Arctic sunrise, that soft, bright look vanished in an instant, replaced again by the determined look, the furrowed brow, the tight-lipped smile.

Francis stood up, still carrying his plate, and cleared his throat. "Right. I better get going. Much to plan." And with that, he marched out of the tent, leaving James with a plate of seal meat he would not eat, the ache of old wounds on his side, and a sinking feeling in his stomach.


	3. HMS Enterprise, East of King William Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They made it to the Enterprise! Also it's about time these two get laid, so there we go.

Francis Crozier does his best to be quiet, but he closes the sliding door to their cabin with a bit too much force. He stands in the dark, listening to James’ steady breathing, until he’s convinced that the noise didn’t wake him up. Only then, he kicks his boots off and removes his jacket. He should have left his nightshirt ready, before heading for dinner, had he known James would excuse himself right after dessert, politely declining Ross’ offering of a glass of gin and leaving the Great cabin with the rest of the Enterprise officers. If he’d left because he actually needed sleep, or to finally allow his captain some time alone with an old friend, Francis can not tell. But he is certainly grateful. The last two hours he’s spent sipping on lukewarm tea, and trying to reason with Ross.

The first command meeting on board, with their remaining Lieutenants, as well as McClintock’s _Investigator_ and Ross’s _Enterprise_ officers, had also been a tense one. Little’s face had lost its colour at hearing of McClintock’s plan. Le Vesconte looked as if he was about to start screaming. Hodgson had remained silent in a corner, probably wondering what he was doing there in the first place. He was headed for a court martial as soon as they stepped on English soil, but had been called to the meeting on Crozier’s behalf.  _ I made a field promotion on King William Island _ , he’d said,  _ but I will not demote an officer in this expedition. It’s not as if we have too many of them.  _ Hodgson was an officer only in name, though. On the trek back to the ships, he had not given a single order, nor received any instructions from Crozier. He hauled in silence, with haunted eyes, same as Tozer and Des Voeux and the rest of their little group. 

In the tense silence, Crozier agreed with McClintock that the men left behind on the Terror deserved a rescue, but he would not force any of his men to go back to the island. He volunteered to lead the rescue party, but McClintock would hear nothing of it.  _ He’s still pursuing glory _ , Francis thought. It was eventually Ross’ insistence that he remain on board the Enterprise and start working on his report for the Admiralty, with James’ assistance, that had convinced him to stay. 

When McClintock had asked for volunteers among the Franklin Expedition remaining officers, it was only Harry Goodsir that had spoken up, and Francis had backed him. _Is he hoping to find her?_ , thinks Francis now. _Or has the Arctic bewitched him?_ As far as Francis is concerned, the love he had once felt for polar landscapes is long gone. He can’t wait to be out of this frozen labyrinth. Which has made it hard to not snap at his dear friend, Sir James Clark Ross, for the last couple of hours.

Ross seems unfazed by the prospect of spending another winter in the Arctic. McClintock’s ship will, for sure, have to overwinter somewhere between King William Island and Peel Sound up north; their party won’t be able to locate Terror and come back to their ship before the leads close. Their plan is to get as close to Terror as possible, hugging the shore near the northern tip of the island, and then sprint with their dog sleds through the pack towards a ship they might not even find at the coordinates where it was abandoned. Encased in ice, it could have drifted with the pack, maybe crushed against the coast. Or maybe, but Francis thinks this less likely, leads have opened to the south, and the six men still on board have managed to sail her down towards Back’s river, as he had instructed them. 

There’s nothing to do, except try. He knows McClintock is competent, as are his men. The Investigator is provisioned for another two years, and this time, if they’re not in Baffin Bay by next June, both Francis and Ross will make sure to have rescue already on the way. Most importantly, if rescue is needed, they will know where to look; they have discussed all natural harbors where the _Investigator_ might overwinter, all points where cairns would be built, and messages left. But that’s not what makes Francis sigh as he takes off his pants and jumps onto the coy they’ve suspended in the tiny cabin. James stirs in the small berth, which Francis has insisted on giving him, on account of his still delicate health. He likes the hammock, too. Reminds him of his younger days at sea. He will like it better when they’re out on the open sea, and it swings as the ship dances on some real waves, instead of the cautious, sluggish route they’re now tracing through the Arctic canals.

What keeps awake, and tossing in his hammock, is Blanky’s face, when they met on the open deck before dinner. He’d looked North, brow furrowed, and said nothing at all. Francis had felt his heart drop as the ice-master lit his pipe, and muttered: _We_ _ might make it. But it will be a close one. _

Francis Crozier hates that word,  _ close _ . 

Ross has assured him that Peel Sound will be open for them, as they leave McClintock’s ship to their rescue mission and steer the Enterprise North, East of Prince of Wales Island, retracing the route that Erebus and Terror had sailed in 1845. But Francis has learned to trust Thomas Blanky more than any condecorated captain, more than the whole Admiralty. He cannot know what Blanky sees sometimes, when he looks at the sky for signs of the ice ahead, but he’s always been right. At Crozier’s irate defense of his ice-master’s assessment, Ross has tried to reassure him, stating that on their way down the sound, he has already spotted several adequate harbors, where the Enterprise can winter if need be; that there’s Netsilik residing in the area, hunting seal year-round, on their kayaks in the summer and through the ice in the dark of winter. They have plenty of food (none provided by Goldner, which Francis is grateful for) and fuel. The men, even the sickest ones, seem happy enough to be back on a moving ship. But Ross has not spent three years in the Arctic, and he does not seem to acknowledge the fact that some of those men have committed mutiny already. Let the ship stop moving, and who knows what those men, whose futures in England are at best precarious, will do. He’s chosen to not treat them as prisoners, to let them mingle with the rest of the crew, to allow them at least that before the inevitable court martial, because he knows damn well that there’s also a court martial awaiting him. The result will depend more on which voices in the Admiralty choose to support him. How could he keep men in chains, while he gets to spend his days with his dearest friends, treated with the deference of a Captain yet bearing none of the weight of actual command, only to arrive in England and maybe be tossed into ignominy? He won’t do that.

And that’s the other reason he needs to get to England fast. To be done with it, tell the sad news to the families of the men he’s lost, face Lady Jane, and Miss Cracroft, and the Admiralty, and either be pardoned or condemned. To wait another winter would be agony. 

He wishes he was a bird. Were he an albatross, he could get to England in no time, across the sea on powerful wings. Seeing the Arctic from above, the neverending landscape reduced to the scale of a map. There’s a group of men walking across the grey expanse of the island, and he flies down to inspect them. He recognises McClintock, and then he’s suddenly walking by him. The rescue party, he thinks. But where’s Goodsir? And why am I here? For a second, he doubts whether he’s dreaming or remembering. It sure feels real enough when he sees the small hill ahead, and the camp at its base. He knows what happens next. Mr Hickey is standing there smiling, hands in the pockets of a ship’s officer coat that’s too big for him. He says nothing as they approach his camp, only gives them that unnerving grin. Tozer is behind him, gun drawn and pointed at Crozier. 

Francis knows what happens next. He blinks. A shot, and half of Hickey’s face fucking _ex_ __p_ lodes _ , and he falls forward, and Tozer throws his gun on the ground, and lifts his hands, and says  _ Check his pockets. _ They’ll find two pistols, Hickey’s dead fingers still around them.  _ You’re clear, sergeant _ , Francis will say, as he had before. By then, the rest of the men in the camp will drop their weapons too, and Magnus Manson will bring Goodsir over, out of a tent, clothes covered in blood, but unharmed.

Francis blinks. There’s something wrong. Tozer is no longer aiming at Crozier, but he doesn’t point his gun at Hickey either. He’s aiming at something (someone?) behind Francis and to his left, and he shoots before Francis even turns to look at what it is. There’s something wrong. This is not how it goes. He does not dare look behind him, but he must. 

James Fitzjames lies on the ground. Francis can see no entry wound, nor blood, but he knows that James is dying. There’s something wrong, James is lying in his tent, sick with scurvy, but alive. James is sleeping on a steward’s berth on board the Enterprise. James is dying on the rocky ground of King William Island. He calls his name softly.  _ Francis _ . No no no no no, that’s not how it goes.  _ Francis. _

_ Francis! _

He wakes up in the complete darkness of their cabin, heart racing.  _ You’re dreaming _ , he hears. He sits up precariously on the hammock, feels a hand on his arm. Sets his own hand on top and then moves it up a wrist and an arm and a shoulder until he finds James’s face in the dark, and feels it with his fingers like a blind man and it is indeed James. In silence, he traces the square jaw, rubs his thumb across the line on the right cheek. 

_ Shall I light the lamp?  _ James asks. 

_ No need, James. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to bed, you’ll get cold. _

_ I’m cold now. Come to bed. _

Francis does not argue. He manages to hop off the hammock and follows the sound of rustling covers to the berth. He sits on the edge and waits for James to settle before lying down next to him. 

It’s a well-rehearsed choreography for them. They’ve been sleeping two to a sack since they were rescued, having left most of their tents behind in order to travel faster. The men seemed relieved and happily huddled together, doubling the intended capacity of the Holland tents, ten or twelve men almost piled on top of each other. A smaller tent for Ross, McClintock, James and himself. Keep him warm, the doctors had said, so they’d sewn two sacks together, and thrown some furs on the ground. Francis’ first instinct had been to hold James, share as much body heat as possible, but he’d been afraid of brushing his arm against the still tender wounds on his arm and his side. So they’d settled on James lying on his right side, resting the injured arm on Francis, who’d lie in parallel, feeling James breathing behind him, some mornings waking up to his nose in the back of his neck. McClintock had laughed, said they might have to swap sleeping partners as Francis seemed much warmer than Ross. James had dramatically declared that he had earned rights to the warmest Captain available, with all due respect to Sir James, while Francis felt his cheeks burn red. 

Sharing a proper bed, on board a ship that is not exactly warm but certainly not as cold as the island was, should feel different, but it doesn’t. Francis settles into James’ rhythmic breathing, the comforting weight of James’ arm over his. The berth is small even for one person, and James has his back against the wood paneling of the cabin; Francis tries to give him space, lying dangerously close to the edge. His heart is finally back to normal, the nightmare almost forgotten, when James asks,  _ What was it? _

There is no way that Francis will ever tell him what he was dreaming. He will not tell a living soul. Francis Crozier does not think of himself as a superstitious man, but a man’s dreams, horrid or pleasant, are his own. He remains silent. James insists:

_ If you won’t tell me what you were dreaming, will you at least share what was keeping you from sleeping before? _

Francis is taken aback. _I thought you were fast asleep when I came in the cabin._

_I was, but I heard you come in, and then tossing and turning for an eternity!_ James sounds wide awake, but there’s a playful tone to his voice.

_ I’m sorry to keep you up _ , Francis apologizes.

_ Don’t be sorry, and just tell me what’s on your mind. _

Francis sighs. He really would rather not speak at all right now, just lie there and wait for sleep, but James is his Second, after all.

_ We might not make it out of the ice before winter _ , he whispers, defeated. James says nothing, seems to ponder it for a long moment.

_ It does not matter _ , he whispers back.

Francis is about to scold him, feels a bout of rage, not unlike the one he’s felt at Ross during their post dinner chat, or the one he felt at James himself, years ago, when he’d told him to  _ shake the brown study _ , but before he gets to speak, James wraps his arm around him, and pulls him close until Francis’ shoulder blades are touching his chest. 

They’ve never been this close, even when sharing a sack. 

Francis panics. He feels his own heart racing and he knows that James does too, cause his hand lies flat on Francis’ chest, holding him firmly. His breath is warm against the back of his ear. And there’s a different kind of warmth taking over Francis body, radiating from his sternum, and straight into his crotch. 

It’s been so long. He hasn’t felt arousal since the times when he was deep in the drink, and he’d wake up with head and prick both painfully throbbing, and lie there trying to convince himself that he’d been dreaming of Sophia. James nuzzles at his neck, and that’s enough to get him fully hard. He should jump out of bed. He should stir, and for sure James would release him, give him some space. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to lean back and close the gap between his buttocks and James’ lap, but he can’t decide what he could do after that, and whether he finds James hard or soft, he can’t decide which option scares him more. His whole body is paralyzed, except for his traitor heart and his traitor prick, but he manages to lift his own hand and place it over James’, braiding their fingers together.

James finds the spot between Francis’ hairline and the back of his ear, and presses his open lips to it. _It does not matter_ , he whispers again, and Francis gives in and turns to face James in the dark, grabs his hair and kisses him hard and slow. It does not matter if their ship gets caught in the ice, if they get caught doing something that will grant them the gallows, if the whole Arctic melts and then catches fire, as they rut against each other, James’ hand roaming under Francis’ shirt, legs entangled. James’ nightshirt is too long, Francis paws at it, cause in this darkness he needs to touch as much of him as possible, to smell and taste this James that is indeed alive and warm and whines softly when Francis wraps his hand around his prick, over the fabric of his drawers. 

_ I’ve never-  _ Francis starts, but James shuts him up with a kiss, opens his drawers and starts touching him, slow strokes, with more pressure on the head.  _ It does not matter _ , thinks Francis. For an instant, James stops both kissing and touching him, and when his hand goes back to Francis’ prick, it’s slick with spit. Francis fumbles with James’ drawers and finally gets to his prick (it’s longer than his own, but slightly thinner, and so solid and warm), and he stops to spit on his own hand like James just did.  _ Touch me _ , says James, voice grave,  _ as you would yourself. _

They should be in a hurry. This should be a quick affair, owing both to their pent-up desire and the risk of being discovered. But they take their time. Francis spends first, trembling against James, doing his best to not produce a sound. James holds him until his breath steadies again, then wraps his own hand over Francis’, which was still holding James’ prick, and starts moving against their hands, moaning when Francis finds his mouth and kisses him again, open mouthed and hungry. He’s undone in less than a minute, whining into Francis’ mouth. 

They stay like that, quiet and disheveled, for a long time. Eventually Francis gets up, lights the lamp, reaches for a washing rag and hands it to James. They clean themselves in silence, in the dim light of the lamp. James’ eyes are dark with sleep, his lips curl up slightly as he pulls the covers back for Francis to jump back into bed. He’s now wearing his nightshirt, the shirt he went to bed with discarded on the floor. They curl up against each other, two parallel Zs on a too-narrow berth, but it does not matter. They just hold each other closer.

  
  



End file.
